The Scientific Method
by startraveller776
Summary: Deductive reasoning is Sherlock's forte, except when it comes to himself.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** Just a bit of fluff inspired by a prompt I received on Tumblr: "Sherlolly: Birthday, Present, Dinner"

Enjoy!

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**The Scientific Method**

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It was ridiculous to celebrate one's birth, as though taking a first breath was somehow a monumental accomplishment. But Sherlock dutifully showed up to the dinner party, present in hand—in part, because he'd never hear the end of it from John.

"It doesn't need to be logical or rational," his friend had explained. "We're human beings, and birthday parties are what we do."

Sherlock had muttered something about muddling cognitive power with sentiment, but ultimately decided to attend. Because it was Molly's birthday. And she, too, was a friend, wasn't she? Odd how he began collecting those—quite against his will—since John entered his life. (Though, he had technically known Molly longer.)

The party was a modest affair with the usual suspects. Molly, of course. John and Mary. George or Geoffrey or whatever the hell Lestrade was calling himself these days. Anderson. A handful of other inconsequential people. And some fellow who was all smiles and intense interest whilst carrying on with the woman at center of the celebration. Sherlock didn't like the look of him.

The conversations throughout the meal were mundane blatherings about one boring subject or another, and Sherlock only participated when he was addressed. He did, however, attempt to keep his comments congenial for Molly's sake; it was her "special" night, after all. Unfortunately, by sour expressions he received, he suspected that he might have failed on that account. Not that he particularly cared.

After the celebration migrated to the drawing room for drinks and presents, John pulled him aside. "Well?" he asked. "What's wrong with this one?"

Sherlock frowned at his companion. "'This one,' John?"

John gave him a flat look. "Alan. Molly's new boyfriend."

"Oh, him." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why should I know if there is anything wrong with Alan?"

He did know, of course. Faded stamp on the man's left hand from one of London's underground gaming houses. Shoes worn almost through the soles, but pristine trousers and shirt—both still with price tags attached, though the man had tried to conceal them. Chronic gambler heavily in debt, desperate to keep up appearances of financial stability. Possibly a social climber as well, and likely to drop Molly should a better opportunity cross his path.

A man most definitely unworthy of Sherlock's friend.

"Uh huh," John replied with obvious disbelief. "Tell me, Sherlock, how many men has Molly dated since you've returned?"

Sherlock scoffed at the inane question. "I really don't see—"

"Four. She's dated four—including Alan." John crossed his arms and shook his head. "And you've found fault with every one of them."

"Don't be absurd—"

"First there was Tom," John spoke over him, counting Molly's beaus with his fingers.

"'Meat dagger.'" Sherlock made a derisive noise. "The man was a buffoon."

"And then Ian."

"He built a shrine to her!" Sherlock hissed. "I can hardly be blamed for pointing out his inclination toward unhealthy romantic obsession."

"And Henry?"

Sherlock glared at John. "He'd only insinuated himself into Molly's life to kept apprised of the investigation into his sister's murder."

"Which he didn't commit, by the way," John said.

Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss the implication that Henry might have had a real interest in Molly. "He left after the case was solved."

"Because he lives Hong Kong. They still exchange emails. He's invited her to come visit him."

Sherlock's brows pinched together. How was it that John was privy to this bit of information and he was not? "I'm not sure a visit would be safe for Molly. His business dealings can be less than scrupulous."

"Ha!" John pointed at him, wearing an intolerably smug grin. "That's exactly what I'm talking about."

"If your point is that Molly has the unnatural ability to attract unsuitable men," Sherlock said, growing bored with this ridiculous conversation, "then bravo. You've made it."

"No, that's not my point." John made as if to expound further, but Mary interrupted.

"What are you two going on about here in the corner?" she asked. "Molly's new sweetheart? Did I miss the bit where Sherlock tears him apart? Oh, wait, did you tell him yet?"

"I was getting to it," John said.

Sherlock raised a brow, looking his companions over. There was nothing in their bearing or behavior that gave away the sort of impending announcement Mary's question suggested. "Getting to what?"

"Getting to the fact that you like Molly." Both John and Mary smiled at him as if they'd made the revelation of the century.

"Obviously I like Molly," Sherlock said with exasperation. "I don't bother associating with people I don't like."

John looked as though he was straining to contain his laughter.

"What John means," Mary said, "is that you like Molly—romantically."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. "Don't be daft. You know I don't go in for that sort of thing with emotions and feelings." He practically spat the last word.

"I know, I know." Mary laid a placating hand on his arm. "Romance is not as exciting as solving a good case of murder—"

"Hey!" John protested.

"—but it has its merits with the right person."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "And you both think I feel—" there was that blasted word again "—that way about Molly."

John nodded. "Yes, I do. _We_ do."

Of all the ludicrous things… "Like" Molly Hooper as a _lover_ might? Preposterous. Sherlock let out long-suffering sigh and turned on his heel.

"Where are you going?" John asked after him.

"I'm leaving," Sherlock said over his shoulder, "before you and your wife can get any more silly notions in your little heads."

He shouldn't have bothered with the party. Why had he, again? Oh, right. Molly. Because Molly was a friend. Of course, he'd missed John's birthday parties before, but that was entirely beside the point.

"Are you going already?"

Molly stopped him at the door, wearing a tentative, earnest smile. Always tentative and earnest. Well, less so when she was slapping him for testing positive for drugs. He'd rather liked that moment. Not the slapping bit, of course, but that fierce…indefinable thing in her which she had previously kept under wraps.

"Many happy returns, Molly," he said with bow of his head.

"But I haven't opened my present from you yet."

Another pointless tradition. "It's only tickets to that—" he gave a vague wave of his hand, "—show you mentioned wanting to see. The one at the Barbican center."

Her smile transformed into something infinity more appealing, especially coupled with that rosy hue on her cheeks. "Hamlet? You got me tickets to Hamlet?"

He made an indistinct noise of confirmation, though he wasn't entirely certain why she seemed so…flattered. She _had_ brought up the play the other day as they worked a case. Wasn't it logical to give her something she wanted? Social interactions had such messy, indecipherable rules and _people_. But Molly wasn't people—not really.

She was something more. Something special. Like John, but different.

Different in what way, though?

"Sherlock?" Molly's brows creased with a frown. "Are you all right?"

Quite all right, he told her. In fact, would she be willing to engage in a brief experiment? Because he was attempting to ascertain exactly what more and different thing she had become to him. It would only take a moment—just a simple test to either eliminate or confirm one of many possible hypotheses.

Or, he thought he had made the request, but in fact, he had merely kissed her. No, not _merely_. This wasn't some trivial peck, but a true meeting of lips on lips. (After all, Sherlock did not conduct his experiments by half measures.) And it was…not unpleasant. It was rather nice, and he could see the allure, though it wasn't terribly overwhelming.

Until Molly kissed him back.

Oh. _Oh_. Was this what Mary had been prattling on about? Yes, he understood now. This was exciting in a wholly different way than when he landed an interesting case. And true to the scientific method, he would need to reproduce this experiment. In every way possible. Often.

Unfortunately the need for air outgrew the need to continue confirming his hypothesis, and they broke apart. She looked up at him, confused, breathless, and expectant.

"He's a gambling addict close to financial ruin," Sherlock said. He had no idea what the proper response was after a good snog, but he was certain of one fact: Alan had to go. Immediately.

Molly blinked. "What?"

"Your date," Sherlock answered with a hint of impatience. Keep up, Molly. "He's—"

"Not you?" she supplied with a soft laugh.

Sherlock considered her remark. "Yes." He gave her one of his rare genuine grins.

He kissed her again and was fascinated by how natural it felt this second time. And sliding his hand up her jaw to splay his fingers in her hair enhanced the effect of the kiss. Greatly. For her as well, if her responding shiver was any indication.

Oh, yes. Further experimentation was most definitely required.

But not now, not with others milling about.

"Goodnight, Molly," he murmured when he reluctantly broke off the kiss. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He left her speechless in the entryway. (That was a good sign, wasn't it?) And on the cab ride home, he received a text from John.

_I was right._

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in a half-smile. Perhaps, John. Perhaps.

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading this little drabble. If you have a moment, I'd love to know what you thought of it! :)


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